(9/3/08) i get lost calling 911

(Entered in paper journal at 6:04 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)

Dream #1

I was at a party with a group of co-workers. We all sat by a pool in the backyard of a big house. It was probably night. My co-worker DE had disappeared, but now he had climbed back over a tall, iron gate to m right. He stood on a box like an electric power box. His hair was long, but upright and frizzy, like he had been electrocuted. His hair was pale blonde, almost like a bad dye being washed out to white.

DE was plainly drunk. He loudly called attention to himself and then plowed himself face first off the box and onto the ground. Everybody shouted as he did it for him not to do it.

At first I wasn't too worried. I thought he'd be okay. But now everybody was screaming.

My view of DE had been blocked by something. I stood up and saw DE lying face down in a pool of blood. DE's body was quivering.

I ran out to the front yard, grabbing my cell phone. I yelled back, "Does anybody know the address to this place?" Nobody did. I looked at the house number, then, as I dialed 911, I ran up to the corner of the street to find the street name.

An operator had answered. I said, "I'm calling from..." (I looked at a sign.) "... Boulder County."

The operator said, "Yes."

I said, "I am on XXXXX." I might have said the street name and number. But I soon began whether the operator would understand me at all, and whether I was giving the right address.

I walked back to the house. I walked around inside. But nothing looked familiar to me.

I remembered that the people who owned the place I had been in before were a husband  and wife. The husband was named "Erin." Both the husband and wife may have been illustrators. They had invited all of us over for a party.

I kept walking through the house, hoping to find something familiar. I came upon a man, who asked what I was doing here. I may have told him.

I continued going through the house. I was on a second level. A Mexican woman asked me if I was looking for Erin. I said I was. She said, "His house is right next door."

The woman pointed to what was first a slight opening in the wall. The opening then appeared to be a balcony looking into the next house.

I looked over as the woman continued talking (probably about how Erin was an illustrator). That place didn't look like the place I knew, either. The walls were painted with a strange design, like red, black, and white Native American pottery. The walls were enormous.

I looked further over the balcony. There stood a tall sculpture. The layout of it was like Rodin's Six of Calais, but all the characters were papier mache, in color. They were modernish, all old, white, skinny-looking, with big noses, and big, blue eyes. They wore colorful clothes, blue and red shirts, etc.